


Something Underneath

by Artifex_Verbum



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Growing Up, M/M, Masturbation, Panic, Teenage Rebellion, Walking In On Someone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:34:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26725240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artifex_Verbum/pseuds/Artifex_Verbum
Summary: Martin was never arrested, his attempts to chloroform Malcolm and make him forget those critical things having proven successful. The young man grows up with the nagging feeling that a darkness lives in his father, and as he reaches teenage-hood, finds his own darkness.***NOTHING SEXUAL HAPPENS WHILE MALCOLM IS A KID***
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 12
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

Malcolm squirmed uncomfortably where he sat, his fingers digging into his soft blue bedspread. He was wearing his school uniform, shoes and all. Despite that though, he wanted to peel the layers back on his bed and crawl inside to never emerge.

He had come home with a question after he’d heard his math teacher and principal talking in the hallway. They stood like statues, speaking in hushed whispers about Mrs. Ztot - Malcolm’s English teacher. She had been gone from school from some time.

Malcolm wasn’t supposed to be in the hallway, but he had gone to the restroom and was taking his sweet time returning to a class that was far too boring to capture his attention. He often spent class terribly bored and lightyears ahead of his peers. 

So he clung to the corner listening to these two grown ups discuss one of his favorite teachers. 

Mrs. Ztot was going to have a baby and when she bid the class farewell, she had a decent sized bump showing beneath her favorite bubblegum pink sweater. 

He worried about here and his concern only ratcheted up when he heart the principal and math teacher talking about a c-section. 

He had no idea what they meant, but he knew from the tight draw of their pursed lips and concerned expressions that something rough had happened with Mrs. Ztot. They also mentioned bleeding and infusions and Malcolm felt his eyes begin to water.

A hand on his shoulder startled him and he jumped as he was spun around by a science teacher for an older grade, Mr. Hanson.

The math teacher and principal were staring down the hallway at Malcolm and Mr. Hanson who had caught him. 

He had returned home that day silent and withdrawn, his little heart aching. Worst of all, he knew that Mr. Hanson had called home and warned Jessica and Martin that Malcolm may come home with some...questions…

What Malcolm didn’t know was that Mr. Hanson had asked Jessica if she or her husband had “the talk” with their son yet. The answer was “no, no they had not.” But that was about to change.

You’d think they’d leave poor Malcolm alone for the day, having suffered enough confusion and not needing a heaping dose of cringe on top of that, but they did not.

After school, and his snack and retreating up to his room without a word to his parents or his sister, Malcolm hoped to put the entire day behind him - quickly. 

No such thing was going to happen.

Martin climbed the stairs to the second floor, his footfall creaking over the hardwood floor signaling to whoever listened tha the was approaching. 

He came to his boy’s door, stopped and knocked a few times. There was no answer, but he opened it regardless. That wouldn’t fly in a few years, but was safe for now.

“Malcolm,” he said softly, peeking his head of curls inside the room. 

“Go away,” he says in a huff.

“Now Malcolm,” Martin comes in anyway. “Don’t be like that. I know that you’ve had a tough day,” he walks over to the bed and sits. “But sometimes it can be helpful to talk to your loved ones on those tough days.”

Beside him, his nine-year-old pouted, his sharp blue eyes focused on the floor.

“I know that you’re worried about Mrs. Ztot,” he puts a hand on Malcolm’s head, but the boy shrugs it off and Martin returns it to his own lap. Still needing some form of comfort, Malcolm twists briefly and grabs a pillow to shove under his ribcage and hold.

“It occurred to your mother and I that…” Martin stops and clears his throat. “Well, we’ve never had the talk with you.”

“What talk? You’re talking right now,” Malcolm shoots back bitterly. He’s so tired of adults having all the answers and keeping him in the dark that he could just scream. He wants to grow up quicker because being a kid is taking forever.

“We haven’t had the birds and the bees talk with you,” he says and Malcolm finally looks over and up at him. 

He’s not sure that he’s ever seen his father nervous and it’s as if the doctor is trying too hard to pretend that he’s not. He wears normalcy like an ill-fitting coat and a tight smile pulls at his lips. He sprinkles sighs between his words and mostly avoids eye contact with Malcolm. 

Malcolm clings to the pillow at his tummy and already doesn’t like wherever this is headed. He can tell by his father’s tone alone that it’s going to be uncomfortable.

Martin swallows.

“You see, Malcolm...when a man and a woman love one another. Or -” he holds up a finger and corrects himself, “or when a man and a man love each other, or a woman and a woman love each other...they sometimes...have sex.” 

Oh no.

No.

Nope.

No.

Malcolm had heard tidbits here and there from other students at school about “sex.” He knew that when the family watched movies where there was too much kissing, the scene would cut away and the next day the couple would be in bed together. That’s the part they didn’t show - the sex.

His stomach dropped and then rolled.

“I - I don’t want to talk about this,” he squeaked, cheeks turning red.

Martin just steamrolled past his son’s objection. 

“But today we’re going to talk about a man and a woman having sex because we need to talk about reproduction - having babies. Like Mrs. Ztot, who had her baby boy and is going to be alright, by the way,” he had his hands out in a pacifying gesture. “But before we can talk about *how* she had her baby, we need to talk about how babies are made,” he swallowed.

“No!” Malcolm objected a second time. 

“Look, I can tell that you’re embarrassed, but there’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” his father lied, clearly embarrassed himself. 

“I don’t want to have this conversation,” he gritted through his teeth, his brows furrowed. Martin felt his resolve begin to slip. 

Martin sucked in a deep breath.

“Maybe we could have it another time then…”

“No!” Malcolm shouted. “I don’t want to have this conversation ever!” 

“Son, you need to know about sex. From your reaction, I can tell that you already know some things...I just want to make sure that you have the facts, because wrong information can be a bad thing. And I’m a doctor, I know all about the human body - which, by the way is fascinating! There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“You’re not listening!” He stood and threw the pillow off his body and to the floor with a soft thud. “I’ll have the conversation with Mom okay! Just not you!”

Martin looked confused and hurt and Malcolm’s chest ached where his heart beat.

“U-usually father’s have this talk with their sons...and mothers have this talk with their daughters…”

“I don’t care!” he flailed his small arms. “I want mom to tell me, not you!” 

“But Malcolm,” he reached a hand out to take Malcolm’s arm, but the young man had bolted out of the room. 

...

A week later, it was Jessica who sat down with young Malcolm and told him of the birds and the bees.


	2. Chapter 2

When Malcolm was fifteen he found it impossible to fit in at school. It was a struggle that most teenagers could relate to, but he felt alone in his difficulties and starting high school only compounded the isolation he felt. 

He wasn’t a jock, he wasn’t an artist, he wasn’t gorgeous (well, his eyes were). He was a brainiac whose mother had forced him to take ballet at the end of elementary and was currently forcing him to take fencing and piano (as he had since he was six). 

To further complicate his standing, everyone at school knew that he was, perhaps, the richest student there. They envied him. They hated him. They made fun of him. They called him a freak.

It didn’t help that his body was growing vertically much faster than it was growing horizontally. He had very scrawny muscles and his limbs were lanky and awkward. He often smacked into objects or tripped over himself leaving his shins and forearms littered with bruises. 

He couldn’t remember if it was at the end of age 12 or the beginning of age 13, but he’d discovered masturbation and that had quickly become his favorite pastime along with video games.

Now he was halfway through being fifteen and praying for a speedy end to high school...but teenage-hood, much like childhood, was taking forever.

He still harbored a righteous fury when it came to authority, hating that he was on a subpar plane of existence compared to adults. 

‘Typical angry teenager,’ he could practically hear his mother’s therapist saying. He pictured her huddled around the kitchen island with her friends. She often congregated with them and they all talked about how “difficult” teenagers were. 

Good. He wanted to be difficult.

He rebelled here and there, but never did anything ‘seriously bad.’ 

‘Today was a good day to rebel,’ he thought as he walked down the upstairs hallway in his house. He gently pushed the double doors open and peered inside. The room was spotless, beautiful enough to be torn from a magazine. He gulped but continued.

Tiptoeing into his parent’s bedroom, he felt that rush of a thrill at doing something he wasn’t supposed to. 

His father had made it quite clear that he was never to go into his “work area” in the basement and that he was always to knock when going into his parent’s bedroom. And if they were not in there, he was not to enter.

Yet, here he was, slinking across the vast room, past the large bed, and towards the mammoth master bathroom. 

He was on a mission to secure a tube of his mother’s lotion. He had spotted it the last time he was in the bathroom talking to mother as she put her jewelry on for an event. It was at the back of a drawer, long forgotten and clearly not a favorite of hers. But he knew that it was expensive and luxurious and that he had run out of his own lotion.

He didn’t want to ask for more lotion because his parents would know what he was using it for - and it wasn’t moisturizing.

It wasn't like he could come right out and ask for lube, so he used lotion to jerk off. Lotion that he was now out of. 

Could he have stolen some of Ainsley’s lotion? Probably, but it would smell sickly sweet and flowery and remind him of her, which he certainly did NOT want while he was...doing ‘that.’

So he snaked through the forbidden space and towards the bathroom. Mother was at book club and father hadn’t come home yet. 

Or so he thought.

Malcolm pushed open the bathroom door and walked inside. His steady stride came crashing to a halt and his heart thudded and skipped in his chest. 

His father was home.

Not only was he home, he was there, in the bathroom. 

His hair was matted to his head in curls that couldn’t form under the weight of the water. His face was turned towards Malcolm and his eyes belied the shock that he felt at having been caught so off guard. Water dripped from his face and down his chest and goosebumps rose on his pale flesh wherever Malcolm's eyes travelled.

It was clear that he had just taken a shower and had made one step out of the glass embrace of the shower to reach for a towel when his boy entered. He was so surprised that his outstretched arm fell and he just...stood there…

Malcolm’s mouth fell open and his own feet froze. How had he not known? Why wasn't the fan on? Why wasn't there steam? Where were all of the signs that could have warned him?

Time came crashing to a halt. He should have turned, he should have run from the room, he should have said something, but instead he stayed and stared. 

His father had a supple amount of chest hair between his two peaked pink nipples and that hair trailed down his torso, narrowing into a happy trail that ended in a thatch of well groomed pubic hair. 

‘Time to go!’ logic shouted at Malcolm, but the marble floor had turned to quicksand. He had no idea that his own gaze had the same effect on Martin. 

Dr. Whitly was held fast by the curious blue eyes that pinned him in place like a butterfly with its wings spread. Open. Vulnerable. Soft. Available for viewing in such a private way that it could never be unseen or un-remembered.

Malcolm’s eyes of course went to the older man’s cock. It was long and thick and was in a state that Malcolm’s friends would call, “a chub.” 

But why? 

Was he getting hard? From being seen? Caught like this? Or was he coming down from having been hard? Was that a thing? Malcolm didn’t even know really. After he came, he usually collapsed in a fit of exhaustion that resulted in a nap. 

If he kept standing there, staring, he’d find out. 

But he couldn't. 

It was difficult, but he ripped his hot gaze away from Martin’s cold body. He had to...because he felt himself beginning to grow hard.

He swallowed even though his mouth was bone dry and turned towards the vanity, determined to get his prize. 

“Malcolm,” Martin said sternly in the voice reserved for when he had done something really wrong.

“I - I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were home,” he opened the bottom drawer of the vanity and grabbed the lotion along with a tube of unopened toothpaste. “I r-ran out of toothpaste,” he lied, taking both items and moving to the door. He was almost to it. So close.

“And the lotion?” 

His feet halted, and he stared out at his parent’s empty bedroom stretching before him like a safe haven. The words floated from behind him and his stomach flipped.

“Yeah, needed some of that too.”

“Malcolm…you know the rules.”

“I’m sorry alright, I won’t do it again,” he stammered before fleeing from the room.

By the time he had raced down the hallway and reached his room, he was practically hyperventilating. He dizzily wobbled into his private space and made sure to lock the door before collapsing against it heavily. He tossed the lotion and toothpaste onto his bed and rushed to get his desk chair in order to park it up against the doorknob for an added measure of security. 

Did he think that his father might follow him? Yell at him? Maybe. He wasn’t sure. 

All he knew was that he needed to be alone in this moment. He needed to be alone with his thoughts and alone with his panic and alone with his hard on. 

He heaved in air too quickly and felt his fingers prickle with hyperventilation. 

What the fuck?

What the actual fuck?

Why? Why was he hard?

Disgust bubbled and boiled in his chest until it was rising up his throat and threatening to spill out of his mouth. His cock ached where it was trapped behind the cotton of his boxers and the denim of his jeans and his fingers itched to reach for it.

This was normal. He was 15, he got hard if the wind blew the wrong way. That’s all. There was nothing wrong with him. He was normal. On shaking legs, he shuffled over to his bed and sat on it’s edge, continuing to suck in deep breaths.

He gulped and willed his erection to vanish, but it would not.

Trying to make it go away, he picked up a book and tried to read. That did not work. Nor did trying to think of awful things. Nor did playing a stupid little game on his Razr flip phone. Nothing was working.

Not only was nothing working but the lotion he had absconded sat on his bed and urged him to do what he was too afraid to. 

He could feel the weight of it next to him. The way it’s nonexistent eyes crushed him, the way it’s nonexistent lips whispered for him to pick it up, to put it to use. 

In a huff of frustration, he hastily undid his pants, fumbling with the button and zipper until he could get a hold of the oppressive clothing. Hooking his thumbs into his boxers as well the waist of his jeans, he took both and slid them down his thighs.

This was sick.

He was sick.

Wasn’t he?

He grasped the lotion and popped the lid open. Thankfully, it did not smell like his mother. It was basically full and unused. He squeezed the tube until he had a good amount on his hand. Determined to get this over with quickly, Malcolm resolved to think of anything *other than* Martin.

He took his cock in hand and closed his eyes.

In an attempt to 'be normal,' he tried to think of Amy, the girl at school he had a crush on. He tried to think of breasts and thighs and the curve of women’s hips. The smell of her perfume, the way she bent over in the hallway after she’d dropped her pencil. But none of those things sent the sizzle of electricity crackling up his spine that Martin did.

He stroked and he tried, but his mind’s eye flashed to Martin. 

His psyche sang at having caught the inscrutable Dr. Whitly off guard and felt thrilled by having seen the esteemed doctor without his layers, without his walls. It almost gave him a sense of power. Almost. But he had been embarrassed himself. He had been exposed himself just from the amount of time he allowed his eyes to linger on the older man’s cock.

Fuck...his brain brought back that picture of Martin’s most private area, dripping with shower water, thick and getting thicker. How big would it be hard?

Malcolm groaned and tightened his grasp on himself. 

His father had never touched him inappropriately...there was no reason for this...none… He shook his head as if the motion could dislodge the thoughts he was having about Martin. 

It didn’t work. 

He thought of Martin’s strong arms carrying him. The smell of his cologne. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. His solidly stern tone in the bathroom just now. The way his nipples were hard and his large hands didn’t even try to cover himself.

Did he want Malcolm to see or was he just stunned into place?

Malcolm felt so conflicted. 

He choked out a broken sound as he stroked. 

He hated himself.

He hated that this wasn’t the first inkling that something was ‘off’ between him and dear old dad.

There were moments before this when Martin would look at him with adoration, as any father would, and Malcolm would feel his cheeks heat. Moments that were, by all accounts, normal - all normal except for Malcolm’s reactions to them. Like when his mother would lean in and kiss Martin and he’d have to bite back a snarl and roll of jealousy. 

“My boy,” Martin’s voice, warm and thick as syrup floated through his memory and he let out another cry as tears rolled down his cheeks. 

He didn’t want to be this. He didn’t want this.

He knew that his father had secrets. He had touched the hem of his secrecy and was harshly spurned for his efforts to dig deeper. There was a wall up around Martin, which is why, seeing him naked like that, seeing him exposed, made him feel vindicated. 

How could Martin simultaneously make him feel so safe and secure and yet on the edge of some treacherous precipice? It was giving him whiplash. 

He panted and stared down at his own angry red cock.

What would happen when this was over?

Would he pretend it never happened? Would Martin address his trespass with him or never mention it? 

God, he hoped that he’d never bring it up and certainly never tell mother.

Would Malcolm bury himself under his blankets and stay there until he died? How could he face his father after this? How could he face himself knowing that seeing his naked father had so swiftly turned him on? 

He had no psychic abilities, no way to see that panic that waited for him in the coming days and weeks and months. After this day he would have a crisis of consciousness so powerful that it would nearly break him. His sleep would suffer and he’d barely eat. He wouldn’t make eye contact with Martin for a month and even after that, their relationship would be different.

That is what waited for him. But for now, he jerked himself off. He cried and he pulled pleasure from the pit of this jet black thing that grew in the pit of his soul like a stain spreading outward. 

He pictured Martin angrily stalking towards him, naked in the bathroom, shouting for invading his privacy, his big hands grasping Malcolm’s skinny arms and yanking him towards the shower, shower droplets falling like rain onto the floor. He’d grab Malcolm and push him into the shower, fully clothed and step inside with him, turning the water on and pushing it all the way to ‘cold.’ 

“Does this feel good?” he’d yell. “Having your privacy invaded?” 

He imagined Martin’s skilled hands going to his shirt, undoing half the slippery buttons before just tearing the fabric apart. He imagined those fingers continuing to undress him, yanking down his jeans and leaving him shaking under the frigid spray in his boxers.

“Do you feel humiliated? Is it a good feeling Malcolm?” he’d hiss, the words bouncing off the glass.

Of course none of this happened and never would. His father had gotten angry at him in the past, but he would never handle him harshly, and Malcolm found himself vaguely disappointed at this. 

He stopped his brain abruptly when he realized that he was...fantasizing...about his f-...Martin. Malcolm preferred to call him Martin right now and he didn’t want to analyze that. Not right now.

“Gah,” he said, feeling better at the release of a sound into the overly quiet space that wasn’t a sob. He was close, so close, and he couldn’t stop seeing Martin’s cock.

“D-doctor,” he whined, feeling his completion approach. He wished his father would be angry with him. Very angry. Punish him... 

“Dad,” he yelled as he came, spilling over his hand.

His orgasm felt endless and stronger than anything else he’d experienced. His tongue tingled with the forbidden word and he realized way too late that he hadn’t used tissues or a sock or anything to come into and now the evidence of his sins lay drying on the carpet. 

It was difficult to get his legs to move once it was over, but he had to clean himself up and pull up his pants. He cried the entire time he did it, lowering himself to his knees and dragging Kleenex over his come to try to remove it. 

Outside his room, he heard the wood floor squeak. It was the board directly on the opposite side of his door.

His whole body heated and his heart nearly stopped. Someone had been listening.

No...Martin had been listening. 

He launched himself up and towards the door, throwing the chair away and unlocking it and ripping it open, half expecting to see his father’s disapproving face on the other side. But the hallway was empty. He walked out into it and looked it up and down but there was no sign of anyone. No evidence that anyone had been there except for the very recognizable waft of Martin’s shampoo and conditioner hanging in the air.


	3. Chapter 3

When Malcolm was seventeen, on some inauspicious summer evening, he thrashed in his sheets. 

Nightmares were not new to the young man. He didn't understand what they meant most of the time, and the rest of the time, he couldn't even remember what they were about. He had no idea that they stemmed from the things about his father that he knew but simply could not accept.

They usually consisted of sweater clad arms holding him. A sickly-sweet smell clawing up his nose and down his lungs as darkness dragged him under. His fingers opening a box, but his mind going blank before he could realize what was inside. A station wagon. The smell of fresh dirt and wet wood. The weight of something in his hand.

Usually he woke up in a sweat screaming for Martin.

It was during the worst nightmares that he called for his father in his sleep and his father would always come. He knew that his son wasn't in any real danger, but he came regardless. He calmed his boy and tucked him back into bed and planted a kiss on his sweaty head.

So when Malcolm shouted for his father on that June night, Martin heard the cry and sprang from his bed. 

Jessica's arm stretched out, her hand landing on his forearm in a grasp. "You don't need to," she whined, half asleep. "It's just a nightmare..."

He peered at her prone form in the dark, knowing that she was right, but also knowing what dark and terrible things existed in the world (being one of the darkest forces himself). There would never be a time when Martin didn't go to his son when he called. 

He was sure that it was a nightmare, but he had no clue when those nightmares might pull back a veil and expose what he was to his son. That and…sometimes he imagined John’s familiar face, a snarl pulling at his lips as Malcolm plunged the knife into him. He had no idea if the man would ever be bold or stupid enough to sneak in during the dead of night to exact his revenge, and he didn’t want to find out that he had after the fact.

So he gently pried Jess’ arm off of his. “I will always check on him sweetheart,” he said before moving away from the bed and walking through the darkened master bedroom. He heard her sigh from behind him as he reached the doors. 

He wore a thin white t-shirt and boxers and felt hot as he tread down the hall in his bare feet. Summer was sweltering and he prayed for the cool breath of fall to sweep in during September and rescue them all.

God…it was only June, he mentally lamented as he came to his boy’s door. He pushed it open and walked inside, his eyes falling on his son’s shining torso heaving in the dark. “Malcolm,” he said softly, padding across the carpet to the side of his bed and sitting.

Neither the spoken name nor the dip in the bed had any effect on the teenager who continued to move and grunt. 

“M-martinnn,” he groaned, and the doctor knit his brows in confusion. Usually when his boy called out in his sleep, it was in a scream and the word he typically screamed was, “dad.”

“Malcolm,” he put a hand on the shoulder opposite him and gently shook. 

A high-pitched whine ripped from his boy's open lips.

“Mal,” he said louder, fingers digging harder.

His boy’s bright blue eyes flew open and darted around briefly before landing on his face. 

“D-dad,” he shot up, arms flinging around Martin’s neck. He clung to his father, fingers digging into his skin until his right hand found the back of Martin’s head and laced into his curls. He nestled his face into the join of Martin’s neck and shoulder and sucked in deep breaths, scenting his soap and cologne. 

Martin had no choice but to return the hug, his hands landing on Malcom’s bare back, offering soothing circles with his fingers to get him to calm down. 

Malcolm breathed rabbit quick in his grasp, his breaths bursting in short gasps against his neck. He nuzzled against his father, feeling the scratch of his beard against his smooth skin and he groaned, hips trying to rise off the bed.

His dry lips ghosted over Martin’s neck where he’d usually dab his cologne and he let his mouth fall open. He didn’t kiss his neck, but fuck did he want to. 

It was occurring to Martin that this dream wasn’t one of Malcolm’s usual nightmares, and when his boy openly moaned against his neck, the sound reverberating against his pulse point, he peeled Malcolm off of him. Once he was free of the octopus-like arms, he pushed Malcolm’s chest, lightly, but with enough force that he flopped back on his elbows.

When Malcolm had first sprung up and hugged Martin, the blanket that covered him had slipped down his thighs. 

So now he lay there, propped up on his elbows, huge eyes on his father who had just pushed him away. And he watched as Martin’s eyes slid down his chest and landed on his erection that strained angrily against his belly. 

“What the fuck Malcolm,” Martin said darkly, forcing his eyes off Malcolm’s cock. 

“D-dad…”

“Did you do this on purpose?” Martin’s face twisted in disgust as he recalled how he stood outside his boy's door two years ago and heard him jerking off after having walked in on him. 

“What? No!” 

“Don’t lie to me,” Martin seethed, his hand coming out to push at Malcolm’s chest once more. Now his boy was flat on his back, panting, blushing, indescribably turned on by his father’s harsh actions.

“I see the way you look at me Malcolm…and you can’t…” his voice nearly split. “I’m your father for fuck’s sake!” he yelled. “Tell me the truth Malcolm!” his voice kept climbing, a hysteria bubbling beneath the surface. 

“I am…I d-didn’t do anything on purpose,” the teens voice cracked on the word “anything,” and his voice wobbled as it filled with unshed tears. 

“I don’t believe you,” Martin was visibly shaken, and Malcolm felt those tears gather at his eyes. The night was stiflingly hot but his precum was cooling on his cockhead and was driving him mad. 

“I – gah,” Malcolm brought his hand to his arousal, unable to stifle his desire for release. He wrapped a bony hand around his erection and began fervently pumping.

It didn't last long. Malcolm was shocked into stilling his ministrations when Martin’s huge hand came to his neck, his body drawing closer as he remained at Malcolm’s side but towering over him as he choked him.

“Instead of covering yourself. Instead of apologizing…” Martin’s breaths were erratic, and his heart skipped in his chest. “You decide to start fucking your fist,” the ‘f’s’ landed harshly. 

Malcolm stared up at his father’s enraged eyes and he squirmed, his cock leaking against his abdomen as the fingers gripped his neck. His pulse screamed under the crushing weight and his muscles ached. He sputtered and gasped and grasped at his father’s hand at his throat with both hands, but the hand wouldn’t budge. His blunt nails scraped at the skin until it bled and the blood made his fingers slip, but it didn’t even elicit a wince from the doctor.

“S-sorry…so sorry dad,” he croaked, lips parted, cold tears falling on his hot face.

He knew that he should be feeling shame, but there was nothing in his soul other than need. He shuddered and watched Martin’s mask of anger slip as the older man licked at his own lips and panted, a flash of desire evident in his features but only for a split second. 

“D-daaaad,” he moaned, his hands still on the one at his neck, the fingers tightening on his throat and he felt his balls draw up. He whined and bucked and began to come with his cock untouched, his own father strangling him with a single skilled hand. 

His eyes fixed on Martin, but the doctor had shifted, his head turning to watch Malcolm’s naked cock shiver and pulse, ropes of come landing on his scrawny stomach. He came so hard that his legs shook, and his eyes slid closed. He moaned obscenely with what scant amount of air he had left in his lungs.

Martin wasn’t helping. The look of awe sprawled openly on his face only ratcheted up the strength of Malcolm’s orgasm. 

Finally…finally…it ended. The tip of his cock dribbled its last pearlescent drop of spend and Martin’s hand went limp against his neck. It rested there, still, nestled in the dip of Malcolm’s clavicle. 

Malcolm sucked in a deep breath, satisfaction rattling through him as his lungs filled. He panted and he noticed that Martin was panting just as hard…as if he had just come…or run a marathon. The doctor was swallowing and sweating and shaking and all of the anger had drained from him. 

Silence wrapped around them both and threatened to crush them until Malcolm finally broke it.

“Please…” Malcolm begged, his voice sounded weak and pathetic as his throat tried to remember how to swallow and work. “Please forgive me,” he put his hands over his cock, which, against his will, was not softening. 

Martin’s mouth was parted and his eyes were making a slow and deliberate trail up his body, snagging on the come drying on his skin. It glistened in the moonlight and Martin felt a terrifying urge to lean over and lick it up. He didn’t have a lot of moral ground to stand on to begin with, but what little he had left was crumbling under his feet. 

“Say you forgive me,” Malcolm’s voice shook violently, and he hiccuped a sob, which pulled Martin’s focus back to the events at hand. “Please, I need you to forgive me. To love me,” he coughed. And coughed. 

Martin’s eyes finally met Malcolm’s and everything he had done came crashing down upon him. A soft gasp came from his open mouth and tears pricked at his own eyes. “Of…of course I…I will always l-love you, no matter what,” the words draped around them both like a blanket of comfort in a downpour of turbulence. “I’m…I’m the one who should be sorry,” he let his hand fall…not even very far…just a few inches down Malcolm’s chest, but it ran into the come sitting there. Caught by surprise, he let a deep groan pass his lips and watched as it rattled through Malcolm's quaking flesh. He pulled his hand away as if burned and stood, wobbling.

He felt his boy’s eyes snag on his traitorous cock tenting his boxers. Frozen like a deer in headlights for a moment, he watched his boy’s eyes watching his cock and he felt it twitch. 

Malcolm was so entranced, so shocked, that his hands had fallen away and Martin saw that he was still hard.

Terrified by the proceedings, he swallowed and got his throat to work at last.

“I have to go,” Martin said quickly. “You’re not in trouble,” he rushed to the door. He heard his boy say, “Dad” behind him, but he did not stop. He made a b-line towards the nearest powder room and launched himself inside. He shut the door and flipped the lights on. 

He lifted his hand and saw the wet glisten of Malcolm’s come on the side of his hand. 

Martin ran his other hand shakily through his hair and stared at himself in the mirror. He was already a monster. He had already done unspeakable things, so would it be so bad if he lifted his hand and licked Malcolm’s come away?

Never would he have considered touching his boy in a sexual way. But his boy walked in on him naked and then jerked off. His hugs lasted too long, his gazes were longing, and he would sigh softly when Martin’s hand rested on his head. He was always asking to help, standing too near, watching too closely. 

But this very well could have been a one-off, an aberration in an otherwise normal life. Just because…all of that…just happened…didn’t mean…anything. Right? 

Panic flared in Martin’s chest, foreign and sour. To stifle it, he lifted his hand and attached his mouth to it. The taste of Malcolm’s come exploded on his tongue and he was so violently turned on that he had to rush to pull his prick out of his boxers and managed only a handful of strokes before he was coming on the bathroom sink. 

He gasped and moaned, shuddering as he poured himself out under the too-bright lights that illuminated his sin and the floral wallpaper that stared at him with rosy, judgemental eyes. He came hard, splattering against the vanity and the mirror, his face twisted in a pleasure pain so deep that he could have drowned in it.

He hissed and whined and pulled everything he could from the orgasm before slumping against the counter, his cock softening on the cold surface.

A groan came from his right and his head snapped in that direction. 

Malcolm was standing there, his eyes snapped like magnets onto Martin, shock and arousal etched into every corner of his expression.

Martin swallowed dryly and moved towards him. Hope and fear roared to life in Malcolm's chest and he took a stuttered breath.

“This…this never happened,” Martin gently pushed him backwards, out of the bathroom, and closed the door gently in his face.


	4. Chapter 4

“What were you thinking?” Martin was furious. He should be relieved, he ought to take his blood stained son into his arms and thank his lucky stars that he’s alright… but all he felt was boiling rage.

“You could have gotten killed!” he flailed his arms for dramatic effect.

“But I didn’t.”

“Only because of this!” Martin held up a mangled black helmet, nearly shoving it in Malcolm’s face before throwing it aside. It hit the bathroom floor tiles with a thud and half rolled away, too hobbled to make it to the farthest wall.

“I know that you’re eighteen and your prefrontal cortex isn’t fully formed,” he crowded into Malcolm's space, “but that’s no excuse to put your life at risk!”

“Vijay said…”

“I don’t give a fuck what Vijay said to convince you to get on that god forsaken motorcycle of his,” he hissed. “Look at you...your arms are scratched to hell, your pants are torn, your legs are bleeding,” he moved to open the cabinet beneath the vanity and retrieve a First Aid Kit. 

“Good thing my father’s a doctor,” Malcolm said flatly, the words landing sourly in the opulent space. 

Martin didn’t respond to his comment, he only opened the First Aid kit and began pulling items out. 

“Did you do this on purpose?” 

“What?” 

“You heard me.”

“How the hell could I have done this on purpose?!” Malcolm’s voice almost cracked, but he thanked God it didn’t. 

“I don’t know Malcolm. Maybe as a cry for attention?” 

Now it was Malcolm’s turn to feel the stinging burn of anger, rising like acid in his throat. 

“I did NOT. But...following that line of logic...maybe I wouldn’t *have* to do something dangerous to get your attention if you had been paying attention to me in the first place.”

“You’re an adult now Malcolm, you don’t need my constant attention,” Martin grit, feeling the words twist and drag against his heart. The truth was, he did want to give Malcolm his full attention, but after ‘the incident’ a year ago, he had taken drastic steps back from his boy. 

“Well, you can’t have it both ways,” Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest, immediately regretting the action as it pulled at the cuts in his flesh. He winced but kept going. “I’m an adult and you’re not a babysitter... and you don’t want to give me your attention...and yet...my prefrontal cortex isn’t formed and I’m an idiot who nearly got killed? You can’t care and not care at the same time.” 

“Malcolm...I do care! Of course I care!” 

“Then where have you been for the past year?” Malcolm felt tears try to form and his mouth went dry. It had been the most difficult year of his life without his father. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me...dodging dinners and...being gone all the time and...moving away when I try to hug you.”

Martin’s face began to heat. He dreaded that one day Malcolm would call him out on his altered behavior but he wasn’t sure Malcolm had the balls to address it. And yet, here they were. Part of him had hoped that Malcolm would appreciate the distance that Martin had put between them. That the teenager would simply accept it as a fact and move on with his life. 

One of Martin’s favorite lies to tell himself was that last year was just a fluke and his boy was going through a phase, but he knew deep down that was bullshit.

Malcolm was hurt, far deeper than the physical cuts that graced his pale skin. 

“I’ve been busy with work,” he began unbuttoning Malcolm’s shirt and trying not to think too much about it. 

The young man looked down at the motion with surprise scrawled on his face and sucked in a breath. He cleared his throat and got his bearings. “Really? Work is the excuse you’re going with?” 

Martin was on the last button when the words were issued and he looked up sharply with fury in his eyes. 

Normally, Malcolm would wilt under a glare that strong, but not tonight. He didn’t know whether it was the rush of the crashing bike, or a full moon, or just plain insanity...but he wanted to dig under Martin’s skin - consequences be damned. 

Usually he shied away from whatever that darkness was, but not tonight.

“I work because I love my job, son. I work to provide you with your comfortable life,” Martin removed Malcolm’s bloody shirt and let it fall to the floor.

“I thought mother’s money did that,” Malcolm shot, the words like tossing a swarming beehive at the already perturbed doctor. 

He didn’t even see the strike coming; it had happened so fast. For being a brick wall of a man, Martin Whitly could strike as fast as a viper. His open hand connected with Malcolm’s face at full force, the smack of it so loud that it reverberated off the bathroom mirror and seemed to vibrate in Malcolm’s already rattled skull. 

The force of it had him falling back on the vanity, propped up on his elbows.

He blinked several times and swallowed as the world reformed around him. His face stung as blood rushed to his cheek and the echoes of the slap faded away. Bright blue eyes finally opened and Mal took in the sight of his father, panting, enraged, body coiled for another strike.

“Do it, hit me again,” he uttered, the words sounding breathy and desperate. 

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Martin stepped forward, into Malcolm’s space. The teenager was awkwardly bent backwards in a pseudo recline. Martin used this to his advantage, pinning the boy in with his hips and resting his huge hands on the cold marble on either side of Malcolm’s torso. He eclipsed his son, staring down at him, the lights overhead illuminating his curls like a halo.

As soon as their hips connected, Malcolm’s eyes slid shut and he groaned. 

Martin’s suspicions were right - his boy was hard. 

Was it the violence? The rush of defying his father? Had the past year away done nothing more than stoke the fire that burned under Malcolm’s soul. 

The feel of the cool surface beneath his spreading fingers brought Martin back to that night last year when he’d barely stopped himself from coming in his boxers, getting himself out just in time to come in the sink. 

What shred of his soul had remained had died that night when he realized that he burned for Malcolm just as Malcolm had burned for him. 

He could barely come to terms with it. Was it some cruel twist of fate? It had to be. Martin had been assaulted by his own father and had never dreamt of touching Malcolm. Hell, the thought of anyone touching his boy made him want to rush into a blind and furious rage. 

But this was not the same situation that had unfolded with his drunk and abusive father - not by a long shot. This was some warped crush, some twisted obsession probably stoked by teenage hormones and an unhealthy attachment. His boy wanted this - longed for it - for years. Still, he struggled with it and he wasn’t a man who struggled with much. 

Malcolm’s hips moving against his snapped Martin back to reality. There was too much clothing between them. His boy looked vaguely disappointed, probably because the anger that had raged in Martin had waned. 

Martin could feel the want ebbing off of Malcolm in waves and it only fanned his own desires. He reciprocated his boy’s movements, only more measured and purposeful, and rather than holding his body up with his hands, he lowered himself onto his forearms, sealing their bodies together. 

“I’m...I’m not going to fuck you Malcolm...I can’t…” Martin tried the words out, he put the idea on for size and felt how poorly it fit. 

As if to dissuade Martin from this falsehood, Malcolm spread his legs and wrapped them around Martin’s waist at the same time as he wrapped his arms around those broad, sweater-clad shoulders. He bucked up into Martin and groaned.

“You’re getting blood all over my gray sweater Malcolm,” Martin bent his head and rubbed his gruff beard against the hairless pale chest before him. “You need to be punished for what you did my boy…”

Malcolm moaned at this and threaded his fingers into Martin’s curls. 

“You’ve been disobedient, reckless and ornery,” he punctuated each adjective with a bruising push of his hips. There was no way this could be comfortable for Malcolm, but he struggled to care. 

The bathroom countertop was so large that Malcolm was now flat on his back on the hard surface, his skin skidding again the featureless white. But the pulling of his flesh opened up the wounds he had garnered during his and Vijay’s little excursion, causing blood to smear. On Martin’s next push against him, he slid back and lightly hit the crown of his head against the mirror, his shoulder knocking a tray that held Martin’s cologne. The glass bottle went clattering into the sink.

“P-please…”

“Please what Malcolm? Punish you?” Martin grabbed Malcolm’s right biceps where a good sized gash was attempting to clot. He dug a finger into it and watched the blood rush out. The sight made him impossibly harder, trapped in his slacks and grinding into his boy. He gathered up the blood and dragged it across Malcolm’s chest. The red stood out so beautifully against his porcelain skin. 

He played with one of Malcolm’s nipples, swirling the blood around the sensitive bud with his thumb before bringing his mouth to it. 

Malcolm scratched his neck and made the most deliciously lewd sounds right into his ear. 

“Fuck me Daddy, please.”

Now it was Martin’s turn to moan. He brought his mouth to the join of his boy’s neck and began to kiss and suck and bite, viciously determined to plant a hickey there and claim him. 

“Please...f-fuck...please take my cock out before I come in my pants.”

“You’re so beautiful when you beg,” he pulled back and roughly undid Malcolm’s pants, pulling them down and off his legs along with his underwear. Socks were next to go. 

When he was done undressing his legacy, he placed him to sit upon the counter.

“Please, I want to see you, touch you,” Malcolm vibrated, his arousal reaching a fever pitch. He had never expected his fa- Martin...to reciprocate. 

“Not now, not yet,” he cupped Malcolm’s face, then ran his hand down his neck and chest until it reached his cock. Malcolm nearly bolted up vertically at the touch. 

“How did that lotion work out for you that you took so long ago?” Martin opened a drawer with his free hand and got out a tube of lube. He flicked it open with practiced movements, not even looking, just pouring some out on his right hand before continuing to stroke him. 

“Ah...I -”

“I heard you say my name Malcolm...as you came all over yourself.”

Malcolm swore and his cock twitched. 

“Do you still fantasize about it? Picture my cock dripping with shower water?” 

“Fuck, yes I do. But I -...”

“But what?” 

“I never got to see you hard. I want to see...let me see,” his hands reached for Martin’s pants but the doctor caught him by the wrists and returned Malcolm’s hands to the marble. 

“Please I want…”

“Greedy little thing,” he tsk’ed. “I know what you want Malcolm...and more than that, I know what you need,” he gently pushed Malcolm’s knees apart and lowered himself to take the straining cock into his mouth. 

He didn’t cry out or shout, he only pulled in a very deep breath and clawed at Martin’s neck. 

Martin popped off long enough to back up a bit and take in the sight, pushing Malcolm back further so he could see his hole and brush a finger over it. It shook him to his core to see his boy so flush and ready, head thudding back against the mirror as he let his legs fall open wide. 

He groaned and muttered, satisfied with what Martin was doing but dissatisfied that he wasn’t doing more. He also didn’t have leverage to buck up into him or do anything really. But Martin’s curls were so soft.

Fuck...his tongue was so skilled. 

Why was he so good at this?

Jealousy tried to fester in his ribcage, but it couldn’t withstand the pure pleasure that the surgeon was bringing him with his sinful tongue. 

He pulled off with an obscene pop. “Talk to me Malcolm, tell me…”

Malcolm’s face was so hot and his cheeks were covered in beautiful blush. His resolve broke like a dam. “F-feels so good. Wanted this for so long, please...can you touch me...there...again?” 

“Where Malcolm? You’ll have to be more specific,” he grinned wickedly as he used a hand to roll Malcolm’s balls. 

“You know where,” he wiggled. 

“Say it,” Martin’s eyes gleamed as his tongue popped out to lick his upper lip. “Or I’ll stop.”

“Fine...I- I please touch...my...hole again.” 

“I’ll do you one better,” Martin stood and quickly wetted a tissue. He wiped Malcolm’s ass quickly, professionally, a little soap, a little water. And then he returned back to his ministrations - eye level with Malcolm’s cock. 

He sucked his boy down, pulling out every trick he knew. He lavished the head and pressed his tongue into the slit, took breaks and sucked on his balls when Malcolm’s breath was too erratic and he was too close. He rubbed his thumb over the puckered entrance and memorized his sounds. When he kissed the hole and licked it and began eating his boy out, Malcolm nearly hyperventilated. Eventually, he had to stop.

Pulling back, he gathered up spit and lube and pressed a finger inside. 

His own cock ached, forgotten in his pants as he breached Malcolm with the thick digit. He was so desperate...but desperation meant losing control, and he just couldn’t have that. So instead, he put his focus on bringing his boy pleasure. 

When he crooked his finger, his mouth as far down on Malcolm as it would go, the cock hitting the back of his throat, Malcolm howled and came down the back of his tongue. 

Martin swallowed around him, savoring every second, recording every sound for his memory just in case Malcolm had a major crisis after this and wanted nothing to do with him. 

Finally, he pulled off of Malcolm. 

His body ached, sore from being hunched over and pained from having not come yet. He was just trying to stand and compose himself when Malcolm scooted forward and grasped him by his sweater front. 

Malcolm pulled the doctor in and wrapped his pale fingers around the side of Martin’s neck. He dragged his fingers through his beard. He inhaled the scent of his cologne. He brought their mouths together. 

Martin was stunned. He didn’t respond. 

Somehow, the act of kissing Malcolm felt far more intimate than pressing his tongue into his ass or swallowing his come. 

Malcolm pulled away, dejection forming on his face like storm clouds. 

Martin had to make a split second decision. Let his boy slip away feeling rejected...or…

Martin grasped Malcolm’s face and brought their lips together in a sinful clash.

Malcolm was so ready, so pliant, his lips parting, tongue coming out to explore Martin’s mouth. “Let me…” Malcolm pleaded, his hand rubbing Martin through his pants, which earned him an approving groan into his mouth. 

He undid Martin’s belt and the button on his slacks and slid his fingers inside. The man’s cockhead was there to greet him, wet and leaking. It made Malcolm’s mouth water. 

Malcolm was only seconds away from peeling Martin’s pants off of him when a noise startled him out of his efforts. 

Martin pulled away as if burned and hastily buttoned up his pants. He quickly grabbed a towel and threw it over Malcolm’s lap. 

“H-hey…” Jessica appeared in the doorway to the bathroom. 

“Jess, you’re home? You were supposed to be on that trip with Margie,” Martin smiled, but Malcolm caught the tinny, disingenuous quality to his voice. 

“What are you two doing in here?” she sounded shocked. “And Malcolm, aren’t you a little old to be nearly naked in front of your f-” she stopped, her eyes going to the cuts on Malcolm’s arm.

“Oh, Malcolm! What on earth happened to you?” 

“That’s why we’re in here sweetheart. Malcolm got hurt, I was just patching him up.” 

“Please mother...some privacy?” he dug his short nails against the counter, truly embarrassed and caught off guard. 

She huffed. “Well, you certainly don’t seem so modest around your father,” she chuckled. “Fine. I’ll leave you to it, but you have some serious explaining to do...you look like you’ve lost a fight.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I’ve already given him a serious talking to,” Martin assured with a musing half nod. 

“Good,” Jess turned to leave, but paused to look back at them. “I ordered Chinese. It’ll be here in ten minutes. I don’t want it getting cold, both of you better be downstairs.”

And with that, she was gone, walking into the bedroom and then away, leaving only a thin layer of her perfume behind.


End file.
